GODSPIT
by ZoharSkarth
Summary: A man alone in insanity, or endowed with the harsh truths of life? Of mortal flesh and immortal thought clashing, of cynical humor but above all else this is about humanity and its downfalls and faults. Rated T but contains strong language, you are warned
1. Chapter 1

GOD-SPIT

Cannot a man be a god over his own damn dog? In that book, ya know, the Bible; God gives manna, then demands. For chrissakes, he feeds then practically says "fetch". Every damn God does that, throws you a bone then tells you to do something.

So why the hell wasn't old Caulfield listening? Damn dog won't do anything for anybody. I swear to God, you could be burning alive and he wouldn't get up. Those sad grey-blue eyes just looked up at me from the spot where he parked himself on the damn sofa. I wanted to kick him. God, right then I really wanted to land a good solid kick on him. Ya know? One that would lift his lazy ass right off my damn sofa. Damn dog. I feed the damned thing and what's he do? Ignores me. Bloody hell ignores me.

It wasn't like I was asking for him to do a handstand, or anything like that, just say good-bye before I trudged off to the office. I know he's old; I'm not sure how old though. I rescued old Caulfield off the street, miserable thing. Saved it, fed it, raised it, and all. Damn dog wasn't getting off the sofa anytime soon, so I just left.

This time I remembered to lock my apartment, not trip down the stairs, and not drop my briefcase. Of course, what I did forget was that wretched God be damned umbrella. And it was raining something terrible. You'd think God was spittn' on you. Yeah, I know every hack and his brother calls the rain tears, but personally I think it's God-spit. That's what rain is, not tears. Why tears? What's to be sad about if you're immortal? Nope. It's spit all right.

I hailed a taxi, I don't own a car, and I wouldn't have room for it anyways. I never have any elbow room, never. Everywhere you go there's always somebody right there. I mean they're practically on top of you they're in such a God damn rush. And their in a rush because they're always late, which makes them angry, which sparks road rage and speeding. This whole planet is polluted with people, people here, people there, God damn people everywhere. Pop'n' out of the ground like weeds in God-spit.

One of these days I'm gonna leave this city. I'm gonna find somewhere that isn't full of people. I'm gonna get some elbow room finally. I'll even bring old Caulfield. As much as he's a pain in the ass I still enjoy that damn mutt. I'd find a nice place, far from people and concrete, away from the traffic and noise. An escape, ya know?

Finally a taxi pulls up, took 'em long enough. I'd been waiting such a damn long time that I was soaked. Now I'd be late. I'm always so damn late. Well, I hopped on into the taxi, after getting soaked to the bone. The Pakistani driver almost leers at me as he asks in his thick accent where I'm going. I want to say "somewhere, anywhere where there are no people, no traffic, no sky scrapers, and no God-spit". But I don't. I tell him where the office is. He smells like smoke and doesn't talk to me, not the friendliest guy in the world. He turns up the volume on the radio on some station that I can't understand. Its all goddamned gibberish to me. But the rides not long, and he's not a terrible guy, just not the friendliest. So who cares?

I pay the guy and hop out at the office. Go in through the big spinning doors, and sopping wet make my way through the giant lobby. What I don't get is that we can afford this God damn huge lobby, and stuff like that, but kids in Africa or some other God be damned place are starving. It's kind of ironic really. They starve with no money, and we waste money on this enormous lobby that serves no purpose but to impress people into buying our products thus giving us more money. Probably if we get enough they'll build another lobby. People are like that. I mean they've got something that's perfectly fine and nice and they throw it out and get something fancier and newer just to show off that they have enough money that they can afford that top-off-the-line-expensive thing.

In the elevator I push the button a dozen times. One part is I know I'm late and even though I know that it won't make it go any faster I still do it, another is I'm claustrophobic as hell. I already told you about crowds and elbow room right? So I push the button a million times egging it and prodding it to go faster, which it won't, and I know it won't, but I still do it anyway.

The doors finally open and I dash out, not too quick like though. I try to look normal as I escape the metal jaws. Isn't that what everybody does? Tries to look normal and blend in even as they writhe to escape? I suppose that helps with organization, but I wish it wasn't so. I'm not asking for mass havoc and chaos or something like that, just a little difference in the world. Someone to speak up and say, "I'm running from the tiny metal death trap that is that elevator."

Anyways, I find my cubicle and sit down. Life's terrible in a cubicle. First off they're tiny, second they're usually blindingly white. Nobody grows up saying that they want to work in a fabric covered box. They put you in this white maze of cubicles like some rat, and the cheese is somewhere else; the experiment is seeing if you can get it though. Most people, as it turns out, can't.

I can hear this guy, Davis typing in his cubicle. Tick click tick tick. Annoying. Anyway, Davis is an asshole. He's that guy that you send an e-mail to asking for project information, or telling him when form 75-A is due and he'll ignore it. Then later trouble comes because of this and he blames you. Saying you never got it to him when you know sure as Hell that he's a lying bastard. If someone tells you to fill out form 75-A then you'd better damned well fill it out. That kind of stuff drives me crazy. So that conniving bastard Davis isn't good looking, most of us aren't though. He's short and always trying to compensate for it with "wit" and "humor". Two words more opposite of Davis were never imagined, but that's how he looks at himself, as the funny go-to guy that everybody loves. It's odd how one's perception of reality is totally different from another's. We all live in our own realities, they merely collide when we talk or see each other. I think of that as I'm driving down the expressways. About al those realities brushing against each other, and for that split second in time, all our realities are the same. Then we pass and we each continue on deeper into our own realities. So Davis has his cubicle on the right of mine, and I'm trapped between him and Jameston.

Jameston, this other guy, has his on my left. Jameston is that nosy fellow who every once in a while you'll see him lean back and "casually" see what you're doing. He'll walk over during break. Now when I go on break I want to be alone and enjoy my God damn break. So the bastard will walk over and talk to you, but he really doesn't care about you. Only about what you're doing, what projects you're on, and what kind of money you're making. That kind of stuff pisses me off. He acts all interested in you only to weasel information out of you, mainly money things. Ya know? It's all about what you make, not about you. You're a number. You don't have a face, or a name. They take that from you; strip you of your humanity. Well that really gets me going, ya know? Sometimes he'll walk over and start to talk, but you know he's not talking to you, but at you. In the mean time while he's talking at you he snoops around your cubicle. Casually glances at your papers, your desk, your God damned sticky notes. He analyzes you. He fucking analyzes you. Drives me crazy.


	2. Chapter 2

Then there's Whitney, this lady who's cubicle is opposite of mine, thank God we have a wall in between us. She's that kind of person who says it's all about whom you know, not what you know and stuff like that. Bossil, our boss who I call Bossil since his name is Basil and he's practically an escapee of the Smithsonian. Well anyways every time Bossil says something she acts like its either hilarious or the smartest thing to ever say. To her the sun shines out of old Bossil's every orifice. Then she uses people, and when she's done with you and you're of no use to her any more she flings you aside like an empty shell. She does that after she sucks out the happiness, ya know? But the whole time she's scheming and plotting and draining you, you don't even know. You're a step to be conquered and used to continue up, always upwards. She's tricky like that, some people are. Secretly they think only of themselves and viciously claw their way to the top. They step on and use whomever they can in a desperate attempt to raise themselves. They're constantly struggling for power, and the sad thing is, that appetite will never be satisfied. She's one of those people who will flounder and strive for happiness, but she'll never attain it. She can't, it's her nature to seek it, but never earn it. Whitney has this annoying giggle that everyone else says is cute. Nothing cute about a snake amongst rats. Nothing cute about it if you ask me. She brown noses and gossips and threatens, hoping to climb the "corporate ladder". I hate that phrase. It drives me crazy.

I think of our office as a maze, and we're all simply rats. Like those little white lab rats. So we try to find the cheese, but only those big-shot bastard rats the CEO's and the likes of them find that cheese. I suppose the rest of us will never find our way out of the maze, never. We'll wander on until we starve or something.

I don't just simply think of it as a maze, I actually _like_ to think of it as a maze. I mean, I know its weird and all, but I like to think of it as a maze rather than an office. Because if I think of it as an office, it's kind of sad. All these people just work and work and work. it makes your hope die. People trapped in their own habitual patterns of work and work and work. And you're stuck in it, really you are, there's no crawling out of the maze, you can only go deeper. Plus if you're stuck in this Hell, where's everybody else? Maybe everyone has their own Hell, here on Earth, ya know? I wonder how many of us are living in our own Hells. Everyday going somewhere we don't like, doing what we hate, a life of mental torture. Because sometimes mental anguish is a thousand times more Hell than the physical ones. A Hell of your own devising and creation, perfectly fitted specifically and tailored for you. Maybe Hell is what we make it; maybe we even make Hell.

Anyway that day at the office was the same as the rest. They're always the same. It's true, I live a God damn boring life, possibly so much so that you could argue that I don't live, I only exist. There's a difference, ya know? Existence is being alive, without the emotions and all. To live is when you enjoy your existence. Welcome to Hell, would a cup of tea make it more enjoyable? It's monotonous, that's what it is I tell you. Though my life is boring I don't consider myself boring. A lot of people though don't consider themselves boring, even though they really are. I mean, if you're boring, don't lie about it, we already know. Trust me, we really do. If you are, you are. You might as well admit it. Maybe though, if you're really boring, you might not know it. Maybe all the boring people go around thinking they're not. Could we all be secretly boring? I hope to Hell we're not all boring. Maybe some of us can be boring, because if nobody was then everybody would be. Ya know? My boss, old Bossil, now there's a boring guy. He's practically a fossil. He doesn't say much about anything important just about work and stuff. He's never interesting. Never.

Old Bossil will walk in and not even ask about your family. True, the only family I have is Caulfield if he even counts. But that's not the point; he doesn't care about you or your family, or his family, or anybody's family. He only cares about the office. It's always "form this" and "did you fill out that?" or "did you send that to So-and-so in accounting?" Poor old Bossil is a bore and I don't think he even knows it.

So my day at the office-Maze was boring. Faxing this, signing that, calling What's-their-face, filling out God damn form after God damn form. Nobody in their right mind wants to sit in a stuffy cubicle from nine in the bloody morning to five at night filling out forms. Anyways come around five thirty, I began to pack up. That's another thing, you work all day and it always takes you longer to do the work than what they're paying you for. You work six hours, they pay you for five. Rip offs, scheming bloody CEO's. They always do that.

I took another taxi back. I could've walked, but it started to rain again. Did I mention I hate God-spit? It makes everything all slick and gloomy. People are always more in a rush, and you always get caught in the rain in your best clothes. Here in New York, rain can be colder than Hell frozen over, I swear to God it can. It'll freeze you through and through.

Anyway after a long wait a taxi pulls up and I hop in. The older Jamaican cabbie asks in that damned thick accent of his where I was going. As soon as I answered him and told him where my apartment complex is though, he too cranks the radio and ignores me the rest of the way. I nearly laughed, but I didn't. It cracks me up. It's funny. I think they avoid me, I really do. They sit here waiting all day for people to flag them down and when I do, they make a point to make me wait so damned long. They avoid me. And when they do pick me up, they're ungrateful enough to ignore my existence. Maybe I'll be a taxi driver some day and ignore people when they hop in. I'll let them in and then just pretend they don't exist, that they're not really there. All day long driving around people that don't really exist. Actually, I don't think I will, taxi drivers have to drive around a lot of bastards, always be in traffic, and stay in that tight little car. No, I don't think I'll ever be a taxi driver.

I sort of almost want to bang on the window that separates us and complain about him ignoring me and how he's such a rude bastard, but I don't. As we're going along I spot this homeless guy. And he's trying to get out of the rain. I felt guilty, as we left him there on the street. That I could go into my apartment, out of the God damn rain and into the warmth. Its odd how some of us can't afford anything and some of us can practically own the God damned bloody Earth. I wonder what would happen if you put a bunch of stinkn' rich guys in a room with a bunch of stinkn' poor people an locked 'em in. I suppose the world is like that already though. I mean the whole God damn Earth is the room and we're all locked in. You can't just up and leave the God damn planet. The crazy thing is, we're all on this patch of dirt together and yet it's every man for himself. Dog eat Dog. We make this planet a terrible place to live. Far too many Hells. C'mon, I mean it. That homeless guy isn't gonna eat caviar tonight, but somebody will, somewhere. And the thing is they'll stay there, either rich or poor, chained to their social status like and iron ball. Enslaved to a society, where we have our place. We fit, change is scary and familiarity is a soothing feeling. Even if society sucks, we accept it and submit to it. We fear losing that monotony that we've become accustomed to.

Anyway I got home and called to old Caulfield. Of course the damn dog didn't come. I looked around, it wasn't too hard, it's a very small apartment. And finally found him. He looked up at me with those grey-blue eyes, this time from under the sofa. Here I was damned tired from the office, and there he was hiding under my sofa. I had to put up with old Bossil, and the Godforsaken rest of the world, and what's he do? He hides under a sofa. The ungrateful thing. I worked like a dog all day long dealing with Davis, Jameston, and bloody Whitney; and here he is lazing under a sofa. Damned thing should be treating me like the master I was. Fetching my slippers and stuff. I got angry, what with old Bossil treating me like a dog all damn day long. So I sat down with the full intention of catching him when he came out from under me.

But as I sat there I began to think, I do that a lot. People say I'm a deep thinker, and even say I think far too much. Some even question my sanity. Anyways, as I sat there I began to think. I guess I couldn't be a God in Caulfield's eyes because, in a way, we're all our own Gods. I don't mean to say that I walk around smiting people or sending plagues around, no I don't. But we have free will and all. We spend our lives for ourselves, you could say sacrificing our very lives for ourselves. I suppose that's what a God is, a higher being that does what it wants. Spits when it wants, and stuff like that, ya know? Immortality and mortality have such a blended line that they are one and the same. No longer separated. So I wasn't angry at Caulfield, he was his own God, as I was mine.


End file.
